


Dorm Room 124

by FanFictionIsMyWeakness



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: ADHD, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, As in it's implied that someone experienced sexual assault, Bipolar Disorder, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Cocaine, F/M, Family Member Death, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Marijuana, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Death, Mostly college kids being stupid, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Substance Abuse, Self-Esteem Issues, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Substance Abuse, This isn't a healthy relationship, Unhealthy Relationships, and it's not really supposed to be, implied infidelity, manic depression, mentions of drug addiction, somewhat possessive behavior, vague mentions of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 22:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanFictionIsMyWeakness/pseuds/FanFictionIsMyWeakness
Summary: "The drive takes four days, which Eddie had planned for. He mostly sleeps in his car, eats fast food, and barely stops for bathroom breaks. He's got places to be and no time to sit around, twiddling his thumbs. Washington awaits, he tells himself like a mantra. Freedom awaits."In an attempt to escape from the clutches of his mother and the secluded prison he had once called home, Eddie heads to Washington for university and a fresh start.ORThe one where Eddie and Richie are stupid college kids and don't know how to handle a certain four letter word called L-O-V-E.





	Dorm Room 124

_Have you ever been in love?_

 

_Have you ever been in love?_

 

 _Have you ever been in_ love _?_

 

 

_* * *_

 

 

Blue is the color of clear skies and ocean waves, of free falling tears, of scratchy jeans and sparkling nail polish. Blue is the color of his suitcase, twenty pounds too heavy and stuffed to the brink with clothes and toiletries and other essentials. Blue is the color of his running shoes, the shoes that carry him far, far away. Blue is the color of his shitty sedan, beaten down and used, but paid for through odd jobs and scrimping and saving, found off Craigslist and priced at under five thousand dollars -his own get away car. Blue is the color of freedom. Eddie is smoking in his bedroom when these thoughts swirl through his head, laying flat on his back, one arm propped behind his head. It's an important night, the stars out and the moon shining high in the sky, too late to be considered morning, but too early to be considered night. Everything is dark in his room as he lays there and smokes and smokes and smokes, higher than a kite, unable to feel his own legs twitching, his own brain thinking. It's the night before he makes his first cross country trip, the night before he leaves Derry and his mother behind forever.

 

“ _You can't leave, Eddie-bear! You can't!”_

 

Tears are pathetic, but satisfying all the same. Eddie would never cry in front of another, but watching his mother break down as he announced his acceptance to a school all the way in Washington was better than any drug, more euphoric than the THC in his lungs, more buzzing than cocaine coursing through his blood. _Four hundred pounds and still gaining_ , Eddie thinks with distaste, unable to feel any sort of guilt in his inebriated state. _Disgusting_. And she tried to convince him that _he_ was the sick one, five years old and playful, cheeks round and rosy and filled with nothing but energy -the desire to run, run, _run_. He's passed the point of caring about her, passed the point of wanting to salvage any semblance of a relationship they could have once had. It's amazing how little he can care.

 

“ _Watch me_. _”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Never in his life has Eddie been one for dressing up. He believes in practicality, has never seen himself as much of a beauty queen, has never been called handsome by anyone besides his mother, and he's okay with keeping it that way. Drunk men at bars don't look at him much, not in the darkness of the club nor in the darkness of their bedrooms. It's hard to see someone's face when it's pressed into the pillows. But occasionally, every once in a while, when he really wants to give off the _I'm gay and barely legal_ vibe, he'll wear knee socks and high waisted short-shorts, an over-sized, brightly colored t-shirt tucked into the waist band. Those outfits give his mother a heart attack.

 

“ _I love you, Eddie-bear.”_

 

Like she could know how to love anyone. Anyone aside from herself. Those fake, crocodile tears, that nasty, used hankerchief -it made Eddie sick.

 

“ _Okay.”_

 

“ _Call me when you get to Washington”_ She'd said.

 

“ _Be careful.”_ She'd said. As if Eddie cared to do either of those things. As if he's ever care to listen to her. He didn't grace her with a response, just got in the car and left. Forever and for good.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The drive takes four days, which Eddie had planned for. He mostly sleeps in his car, eats fast food, and barely stops for bathroom breaks. He's got places to be and no time to sit around, twiddling his thumbs. _Washington awaits_ , he tells himself like a mantra. _Freedom awaits_. There's a night where he stays in a Motel 6 in Montana, so close to his destination, but far too tired to keep driving. He hasn't gotten a proper nights sleep in days and he feels as if he's about to die. The room smells heavily of cigarette smoke and sex, lingering and musty. It makes him crave tobacco. It makes him horny. His mother would have a cow if she were here.

 

He touches himself in the shower, the water making his skin slick and hot and his moans are loud, pornographic. He imagines someone strong pinning him against the wall, fucking him hard enough to hurt, someone who's thick and long and can really _give_ it to him. _God_ , it's been too long since Eddie's gotten laid, he's excited to get his pick of college boys and ride them like bicycle seats. He cums hard against the shower wall, moaning loudly and feeling about a thousand times better. Sleeping that night is easier than it's been in months.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Ben,” Eddie says the names like he's rolling it inside his mouth, curling his tongue around it so it'll stick to his teeth. The boy (or _man_ , Eddie supposes) in front of him is cute in a little brother sort of way. Chubby and fresh-faced, smiling widely as he holds out his hand for Eddie to shake. There are piles of boxes along his side of the room, all in immaculate condition and labeled accordingly. Eddie has already decided that they're going to get along just fine. He's never been great at introductions, but he's managed to assess two things. One; he knows Ben is a nice kid. Two; he has no intention of fucking him. Ever. So he settles on an easy smile, as relaxed as his uptight nature will allow and grasps Ben's hand firmly, shaking it once. “Nice to meet you.” And he means it, which is a rare occurrence, but that face is just too sweet not to trust. He introduces himself as they unpack and the two of them make small talk. He learns what Ben's major is ( _“engineering, with a focus in architecture.”_ ) and that he's from a small town in Wisconsin. Eddie usually hates small talk, has never been good at it and finds himself far too introverted for real friendships, but for some reason, he doesn't mind it too much with Ben.

 

There's a loud crash down the hall, the sort of sudden noise that makes Eddie jump three feet out of his skin, followed by an amused _whoop_ and an even louder _Oh shit!_ Ben glances at Eddie, brows pinched and face confused, before sticking his head out into the hall and peering around their doorway. It's then that the loud _click clack_ of wheels comes rushing down the carpeted floors, growing louder and louder with each passing second. Ben yells something, but it's unintelligible, and Eddie watches as a girl whizzes passed them on a skateboard, her red curls whipping behind her and a large, shit eating smile plastered across her face. Ben quickly jumps out of her way, turning to him with wide eyes, pupils blown.

 

“ _Have you ever seen someone so beautiful?”_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Love isn't real_

 

_Love isn't real_

 

 _Love isn't_ real

 

 

* * *

 

 

The name Beverly Marsh quickly becomes a famous one in their dorm. She's a trouble maker with an ego ten feet tall and a running rumor mill that follows her every where she goes.

 

_I heard she slept with...._

 

_Did you know she's...._

 

_Her ex-boyfriend said...._

 

Eddie doesn't focus too much on them. He's always found gossip to be a waste of time, completely unnecessary in his daily life, but when the red vixen herself pops into his dorm room on a Tuesday afternoon, clad in ugly denim overalls and hair uncombed, the dam of his conscious breaks and he's reminded of every rumor he's ever heard about her. She has a large grin plastered on her face, a mischievous spark behind her eyes, the smell of menthol and cheap perfume wafting behind her.

 

“Do you smoke?” she asks. Eddie notices the anthology of poetry tucked under her arm. _Milk and Honey_. He's read it, once when he was a little bit younger and didn't understand the meaning behind each piece, and he commends Bev for her choice in literature.

 

“Smoke what?” Eddie responds, hands immediately itching for a cigarette. The corners of Bev's lips twitch upward just a little, an amused glint in her eyes.

 

“Cigs.”

 

“I don't think you're supposed to smoke on campus.” It's Eddie's lame excuse to avoid sharing his cigarettes, but he realizes that it's going to make him seem like an uptight prick. Beverly, for her part, doesn't seem bothered. She puts her index finger to her lips, her brows raising into her hairline.

 

“Not if you get caught.” Eddie can't help but grin.

 

It's the start of a profound, inexplicable friendship, like nothing he's ever read in a book or seen in a movie, but gratifying nonetheless.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Weeks go by of smoking in silence, opening dorm room windows and tampering with smoke detectors in an attempt to avoid getting caught. If anyone notices the smell, they don't say anything. When he's not in class, Eddie is either smoking with Beverly or studying with Ben. Sometimes he takes naps in the middle of the day. Sometimes he'll people watch from his dorm room window. It's a quiet sort of life, but an excitement in it's own way. He's never really had people to spend time with before, has never liked the other kids back home, has never been close enough to his little shithole town in Maine to care about forming connections. But he kind of likes his roommate and he's amused by the strange girl down the hall who offers him free cigarettes, and that's better than he's ever really had.

 

“What's your favorite band?” Ben asks one day, tapping his pen against his lips as he does his math homework. It's odd and out of the blue. Usually Ben is good about staying quiet during their study time, only ever bothering Eddie to ask if he's hungry or if he wants to open a window, but today he must be in a talkative mood.

 

“I dunno. Sticky Fingers, maybe?” Ben hums, nodding once as if he approves of this answer. “What's yours?”

 

“Either Gun N' Roses or New Kids on the Block.” Eddie nearly laughs, but pauses at the serious look on Ben's face. There had been so much confidence in that answer that it must be true.

 

“You, uh,” Eddie pauses, swallowing thickly. “You like the eighties, huh?” Ben glances up, pinching his brows as he stares out in front of him.

 

“I guess so, yeah.” He says, as if he's confused himself. “Never really thought of it that way, but. Yeah. I do.” They're quiet for a moment, back to studying.

 

“You're friends with Beverly Marsh, right?” Ben asks, interrupting their silence once again. Eddie hesitates in answering.

 

“Yeah.” He says, but it's weird because he's never referred to someone as his 'friend' before.

 

“Could you, uh, introduce us sometime?” Although he'd never admit it, Eddie is an oblivious person, especially when he comes to the feelings of other people. He doesn't pick up on the nerves jittering through Ben's words, nor does he notice the way his pupils dilate whenever Bev's name is mentioned. So he just shrugs and utters a soft _“okay”_ like it's nothing, like it doesn't fill Ben's sweet little heart with joy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stan is, apparently, Beverly's best friend, but Eddie can't seem to figure out why. He's lanky, awkward, quiet in his nature and stiff in his posture. He has a mess of sandy brown curls on top of his head, pulled back in a messy bun, and he's wearing a red flannel that's two sizes two big, hanging off his bony shoulders like a shawl. His eyes are flat, bored and mean as Eddie introduces himself, but he's otherwise decently polite. Shaking Eddie's hand like he has something to prove, grip firm and hand strong, he uses his full name upon his introduction, looking at Eddie as if he's hiding something. Bev watches the interaction with an amused glint in her eye.

 

“Stan's probably high right now.” She says. Stan blinks at her slowly and it's as if any resolve he'd once had completely fades away, his barriers shattering. Blood shot eyes, heaviness in his stance -Eddie should have realized sooner. He knows a stoner when he sees one.

 

“I'm definitely high right now.”

 

Eddie understands now, can see why the one and only Beverly Marsh would be so attached to this boy, this lanky, lazy, awkward looking boy.

 

It take everything in Eddie not to wonder just how close they'll grow as well.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I met the love of my life_

 

_I met the love of my life_

 

 _I met the love of my_ life

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cocaine makes his brain vibrate like no other, forces his blood to pound through his veins as he feels every twitch and shake in his body. His eyes are wide, wild, hair untamed as he desperately searches around the room, looking for more, more, _more_. His high is intense, body thrumming like a drum beat, hands shaking badly. Nose burning, brain rushing, teeth clenched, Eddie knows he could rule the fucking world like this. A strong, inexplicable urge to dance over takes him, the flashing lights and heavy music weighing on his soul as he watches bodies move with rapt attention.

 

Bev is a terrible, terrible influence.

 

Eddie will have to thank her later.

 

He jams himself into throngs of bodies, swaying and jumping in an embarrassing attempt at dancing. Eddie will be the first to admit that he's an awful dancer when he's high, especially when he's hopped up on coke, but that doesn't mean he won't try to have a little fun. He's not sure where Beverly ran off to, has a hard time keeping up with her when she's feeling especially manic, getting mouth-fucked by football players or smoking amphetamine in locked bathrooms. The last time she showed up to class was three weeks ago, maybe more. It's been a while since she's hit a crash, since she's slumped back into her pitiful, intense depression. Manic Bev is the best Bev to party with, but the worst Bev to do virtually anything else with. Depressive Bev can at least have a conversation.

 

“ _It's called_ Lithium _, Eddie-bear,” she'd said, looking at her bottle of pills with disdain. The nickname made Eddie cringe, but he didn't correct her. “It's supposed to make me normal, but all it does is make me fat and hazy.”_

 

_He glanced down at her small frame, disbelieving, eyes traveling up her thin arms and lithe body, her sharp face paired with long legs._

 

_She turned and threw them out her third story window, chucking the bottle into the horizon with all the strength she could muster._

 

“Eddie!” She calls out, her voice so far away that had he not been hyper aware, he would have missed it. She's stumbling, drunk and giddy, holding the arm of someone Eddie's never met before. He's tall, _so, so fucking_ tall, with a mess of dark curls and thick, coke bottle glasses. He's cute, Eddie thinks. Slender, but not quite lanky like Stan, with a grin that spells out nothing but trouble. In his nineteen years, Eddie has come to learn that he loves trouble. Beverly stumbles over to him, pulling the boy along behind her, swaying on her feet. She hiccups and them grins widely. “Have you met my _bestest ever_ friend, Richie?” She gestures to the boy, who grins and waves. Ripped black jeans and baggy t-shirts are Eddie's weakness, and that jaw line does things to the fluttering in his stomach. The script on his shirt reads _'world's okay-est bisexual'_ and it fills Eddie with a sense of giddiness, of hope.

 

“You're fucked up.” Bev grins and giggles, letting go of Richie's arm.

 

“Yeah, maybe a little.” There's a pause, then, “Hey, where's your roomie? I think he's _so_ cute, and just the sweetest! He wrote me a poem, isn't that adorable?” Eddie remembers Beverly's love for poetry, how she spends days snuggled up in bed, rereading Milk and Honey during particularly bad crashes. Eddie also remembers Ben's interest in literature. And her.

 

“Home.” He responds. Is he talking too fast? He feels like he's talking too fast. “You should go see him. I think he likes you.” Beverly beams and turns to Richie, who's still staring at Eddie with predatory eyes.

 

“Richie, love, take care of my dear Eddie-bear, will you?” He grins, flashing charmingly crooked teeth, hands shoved in the front pockets of his tight, tight jeans. The thoughts traveling through Eddie's head are moving too fast to decipher, but he's aware that not one of them is innocent. He moistens his lips, glancing up at Richie _(God, he's so tall, so fucking_ tall _)_ with wide brown eyes.

 

( _Richie's are blue,_ he notes _. Very, very blue._ )

 

He lick his teeth, not taking his eyes off Eddie for a second.

 

“That,” he breaths, voice deep, rich, _beautiful_. “I can fuckin' do.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_He makes my heart flutter_

 

_He makes my heart flutter_

 

 _He makes my heart_ flutter

 

 

_* * *_

 

 

There's a sense of pure bliss, of unbridled euphoria, that comes with slick sweat and the tension of his thighs. He feels sore, stretched out, tired and heavy, but Richie's grabbing on to his hips for dear life, rough fingers digging deep in his soft, soft skin. Eddie feels alive, brain buzzing and heart pounding. How long have they been going at this? An hour, two? It's hard to say after three more lines and a locked bedroom door. He slams his hips down once, twice, tossing his head back to moan, thighs quivering under his own weight. Richie is a considerate lover, giving and selfless as he meets the jolt of Eddie's hips halfway, thrusting up with all the force he can manage.

 

“ _Harder_ ,” Eddie breathes, his voice husky and strained. “ _Harder_.”

 

And Richie, well.

 

Richie complies.

 

He sits up, tugging Eddie closer, gripping his hips, forcing him down. Never has he been man handled in such a way, not even by the sleazy, experienced men back home. Richie's fingers are long, his grip tight, and he knows just how to touch. Or maybe it's just the way Eddie's brain is vibrating, his body pumping with adrenaline. Either way, he feels fucking _good_. He's pushed on to his back, knees to his chest, head thrown into the covers, crying out like an animal. Richie grunts, shoves himself forward, head buried in Eddie's neck. Long, thick, stretches Eddie open like no other, fills him up _perfectly_ -it's like a dream. It doesn't take him much longer to finish, a soft groan on the tip of his tongue.

 

“ _Richie_ ,” he whines, breathless and panting. Richie, surprisingly, is not very talkative in bed. He only grunts in response, shoving his hips forward, and cums with a strangled noise. The breathing that fills the room afterward is heavy and satisfying. Their bodies are still melded together, slick with salty sweat, skin flushed red. When they finally roll apart, laying next to each other and staring at the ceiling, Richie whistles, loud and low.

 

“You're a hell of a lay, Eddie-bear.” He says, stupid grin stretching his lips. Eddie can feel his high crashing fast, suddenly a thousand times more irritable than he had been before.

 

“Ugh,” he says, holding his head in his hands and rubbing his temples. “Don't call me that.” Richie rolls onto his side, propping his head up in his hand.

 

“What should I call you, then?” He asks.

 

“Eddie.” Richie hums, seemingly dissatisfied with this response.

 

“Eds?”

 

“No.”

 

“Eddie Spaghetti!”

 

“ _God_ ,” Eddie groans, this time in annoyance. “You know what? Don't even bother, it's not like we'll ever see each other again.” He shifts to stand up, rolling toward the edge of the bed when he feels a hand clasp around his wrist. He turns, looking back at Richie who has a predatory look in his eyes.

 

“If you think I'm letting an ass _that_ good slip through my fingers, then you're fuckin' crazy.” Eddie snorts, amused, and glances over at him with a grin. He lays back down, snuggling up next to him, head resting against his chest.

 

“I'm gonna destroy you, Eddie,” Richie murmurs into his hair, eyelids fluttering closed. “I'm gonna ruin you for anyone who isn't me.”

 

It sends shivers up Eddie's spine.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Beverly's depression hits, it hits _hard_. She'd spent a period of three or so weeks running on fumes, mania and adrenaline holding her up, waiting patiently for her to finally break. She'd smoked a lot, going through packs of cigarettes like they were oxygen, and snorted crushed Oxycontin between lectures. She'd gone through periods like it before, but never for quite so long and Eddie had to wait with bated breath, anticipating the next crash. He didn't expect it to be quite so bad.

 

It's brought to Eddie's attention on a Saturday when he gets a string of texts from Stan, all sent within an hour of each other and all asking the same thing;

 

_Have you seen Bev?_

 

He hasn't. He hasn't seen Beverly for three days and he didn't consider it a problem until Stan did. He almost never worries about Bev, typically providing her with all the pills and weed her heart desires -never asking questions. It's odd for him to not know where she is. The two of them end up finding her in her dorm, laying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. It smells like shit, her clothes and hair clearly dirty, her eyes dull. Eddie has to refrain from covering his nose.

 

“Hey Bev,” Stan says. She doesn't respond, just continues to stare straight ahead with lifeless eyes. “How about we get you in the shower?” She shrugs at that, just a mild twitch of her shoulders, face still blank.

 

“I'm not a slut.” She finally says after a prolonged period of silence. Eddie and Stan glance at each other, baffled.

 

“Yeah, I mean, slut-shaming is stupid anyway, right?”

 

“No, I mean,” Bev pauses, lets out a frustrated noise, as if she can't quite get her brain to work, and grabs fistfuls of her hair. “It's okay to sleep around, but I _don't_. I've only ever -I mean- I've only kissed one guy.” This shocks Eddie and, apparently, Stan, who looks equally as wide-eyed as Eddie feels. She crosses her arms over her chest, as if she's freezing, and attempts to blink the tears from her eyes. “It was the only good kiss I've ever had.” Her voice is so soft, so quiet that Eddie isn't sure what to say, but something clicks in his brain and he feels his stomach drop. He's not sure what to say, has never been particularly great at comforting people, but he feels as if he should say _something_.

 

“ _Some people are born with it,” Ben said, clicking through web page after web page. “But I guess not everyone. For a lot of people, it's triggered by trauma.”_

 

“Ben is good for you,” Eddie says, finally. “He -you should keep him around. He's good.” Sniveling, Beverly wipes a tear away from her cheek as Stan rubs circles in her back.

 

“I don't think I'm very good for him,” she admits. “I think I'm a fucking mess.”

 

“Yeah, you are,” Eddie responds, because he doesn't like to sugar coat and he doesn't believe in lying. “But everyone is, right?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Italian food is probably Eddie's least favorite, but he knows Richie loves it, so he goes anyway and orders pizza. Richie teases him relentlessly about his lack of culture, which earns him a kick under the table, but grins nonetheless.

 

“You're so beautiful,” he murmurs as he fucks into Eddie slow that night, fingers laced together and hips circling with leisure. “You're mine, baby. All fuckin' mine.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_I'm yours_

 

_I'm yours_

 

_I'm all fucking yours_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, it's hard to tell _what_ they are. There are days where it feels like a hook up, a friends with benefits situation. There are days when Richie wants nothing to do with him, when he shows up to the dorm room looking for a quick, rough fuck and leaving immediately after. There are nights when Eddie cries softly in the showers because he didn't get a text back, because Richie left him one read for saying _I love you_. Those days are bad; those days make him feel like it's not worth it. He knows Richie fucks other people because he never said he _couldn't_. Almost a full year of this, of whatever they are, and Eddie never bothered to say he couldn't. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though.

 

But some days, Richie will surprise him with a bouquet of flowers and a cheesy poem he wrote himself. They're never very good, but they make Eddie's heart flutter nonetheless. Sometimes he'll plan a date, a cute, romantic outing to the movies or stargazing by the campus pond. Sometimes he kisses Eddie slow and deep, fucks him like they have all the time in the world, whispers sweet nothings in his ear and strokes his hair until he falls asleep. They'll get drunk together and play video games, or watch illegally streamed movies on Eddie's shitty laptop. They'll smoke weed and talk about life for hours and hours while they listen to Nirvana and stuff their faces with greasy, fried food. Pizza is Eddie's favorite to eat when he's high. Richie likes onion rings. It's during times like those when Eddie wants to ask if they're boyfriends, but he's always too scared and too stubborn to try, convincing himself that if Richie really, truly wanted him, he would have said so by now. It's a constant back and forth between soft kisses and sweet nothings and _I love you's_ and total radio silence. More than once, Eddie has wondered if he's lost his mind, if Richie Tozier is just a figment of his imagination.

 

“You wouldn't _believe_ the day I had, baby. Wouldn't fucking believe it.” Richie says, leaning back in his chair, already on his third can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Eddie hates that shit, but he's never been much of a beer drinker. It's Thursday night and neither of them have class until late afternoon, an opportune time to fuck around and get wasted. Eddie hums, mind too stuck in its reeling to respond further. He only half listens as Richie talks, wondering -asking himself when, or if, he'll be able to officially call this boy his boyfriend.

 

“Hey, Rich,” he says, promptly cutting him off. There's a pause, hesitation. He tries to work up his nerve, hands shaking. “You talk too much.” And he kisses him.

 

Eddie doesn't mean for things to end like this, he promises.

 

But some how, they always do.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_You're poison, baby_

 

_I love you_

 

_I love that you're poison._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ben and Beverly's engagement party is a quaint affair. Eddie is invited, because he supposes he's the one who brought them together in the first place, and Stan is sitting next to him, looking bored and high as ever. On Ben's side of the table are his two, apparently, best friends, Bill and Mike, whom Eddie has never met. Not in the two years he and Ben have shared a dorm room, even though they all attend the same university. Richie had been invited as well, the third person in Beverly and Stan's childhood trio. They all grew up on the same block, all from the Seattle area. Eddie wonders what it must be like, barely twenty and already engaged. He finds the though terrifying.

 

When the dinner is over and the congratulations are all said and done, Eddie pulls Beverly aside, cautious not to draw attention to himself.

 

“I mean it when I say congratulations.” Eddie says, carefully, and Beverly nods, encouraging him to just get to the fucking point. He pauses, squirms, his teeth digging into his lower lip. “Why did you introduce me to Richie that night?” Beverly pinches her brows, lips quirking down as she scowls at the floor.

 

“...did _I_ introduce you?” Eddie sighs, having been expecting as much. He would have hoped she would've remembered that night, but it was two years ago and she was quite drunk.

 

“Yeah, well,” he pauses, not sure if he wants to finish this, if he wants to ruin such a happy day with his own bitterness. “Thank a lot, Bev. You may have ruined my life with that one.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you sleep with other people?” Eddie blurts one day when he's drunk and he's angry and he's just about had enough. Richie blinks at him, a plethora of emotions traveling through his features before eventually settling on confusion.

 

“No,” he says, slowly, carefully. “Have you?” Eddie pauses, and he isn't sure why, but he feels _something_ flutter in the pit of his stomach as he watches Richie's face darken.

 

“Who?” He asks, voice gentle at first. “ _Who?_ ” It's a demand this time and it makes Eddie flinch, body going tense as his eyes prick with tears. Richie laughs, but it's humorless, eyes dark with rage. “I'll kill him.” He mutters. “I'll fucking _kill_ him.”

 

“ _No one_ , Richie, Jesus.” He finally says, trying to sound as stern as he can manage. “I haven't been fucking anyone, I'm yours, remember?”

 

“Yeah,” He breathes out, cupping Eddie face in his hands. “Yeah, fuck yeah you are.” He kisses him, slow and keep, the kind that takes his breath away. “All mine.” Eddie sighs, glancing up at him through his lashes.

 

“Do you love me, Rich?” He asks, and Richie hesitates, silence stretching between them, plagued with an intense buzzing in Eddie's brain.

 

“You're my world, baby.” He says, finally. “You mean _everything_ to me.” It's not an _I love you_ , but Eddie will take it as one. He's not sure how much longer he'll get before Richie decides to go silent again, so he doesn't push the situation any further. It's sobering, more than anything. Troublesome enough to clear Eddie's foggy mind as he spends the rest of the night curled up in the arms of a boy who may or may not be using him. And he's still not convinced Richie is straying from the temptation of others, but that's a worry for another day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's a rainy, Wednesday afternoon when Eddie gets the phone call. He's just gotten out of a philosophy lecture, bored and exhausted, and is fully prepared to go back to his dorm when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He ignores it. Richie has been texting him all day, coked up and wanting to start a fight, and Eddie hasn't been giving him the satisfaction of a response. Frankly, he's grown to hate when Richie's drugged up and delirious, either ready to hurt someone or something or crying into Eddie's chest about how much he loves him. It's exhausting. But the buzzing in his pants pocket is insistent, following him all the way up to his dorm, so clearly _whoever_ it is can't take a fucking hint. Grumpy and irritated, Eddie whips his stupid phone out of his pocket, fully prepared to yell at Richie to fuck off, but it's not Richie's contact photo he's met with. It's his mother's.

 

He feels his heart drop in his chest. He hasn't spoken to that woman in _years_. With shaking fingers, he presses _decline_ and then proceeds to turn his phone off, not having the heart to block her number entirely, but not willing to put up with her insistent calling.

 

When Ben gets back from class and hour or so later, he finds Eddie curled up in the middle of the floor, staring at the ceiling and burrowed in an over-sized hoodie. He's glassy eyed, especially quiet. It's stressful to witness. Their room is dark, the windows blacked out and the lights flipped off.

 

“Hey,” he says, carefully. Eddie doesn't move. “Are you okay?” There's a stretch of silence, deafening in it's tension, and Ben has to remind himself to breath, the worry that swells up in his chest overpowering everything else in him.

 

“Well,” he starts after what feels like eons. “My mother died.”

 

“Oh, God, Eddie I'm so-”

 

“I'm going back to Maine next week,” his voice is slow, void of emotion. It's freaking Ben out. He watches as Eddie licks his teeth, eyes still trained on the ceiling, nostrils flared. “For the funeral.”

 

“Do you need anything?” Ben asks, although he's not sure if that's the right thing to say. He's not sure if _anything_ is the right thing to say. He's never had to deal with a death before.

 

“Nope.” Eddie responds, all too quickly. “Richie's coming with me.”

 

“Eddie, that's-”

 

“A bad idea? I know.” It's silent again, awkward and tense.

 

“I'm sorry for your loss.” Ben says, voice small.

 

“Don't be,” Eddie responds. “She-” _had it coming_ , is what he wants to say, but he realizes that he's never really talked about his mother, has never told Ben about the pills, the inhaler, the baths where she'd rub his skin raw, the medicines that _weren't_ placebos, the anti-depressants that made him lethargic and complacent.

 

The days spent locked in a broom closet. “I was expecting it.” Is what he says instead. Ben looks sad, but doesn't push further, instead offering a movie and a blanket. He makes popcorn. It's not the worst night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He and Richie pack up and leave for Maine three days before the funeral. They take turns driving, not stopping to sleep and barely halting for bathroom breaks. As far as Eddie's concerned, the faster they get to Derry, the faster this whole ordeal is over. For the most part, it's pretty quiet, at least by Richie's standards. He blabbers on about one thing or another, but it's mostly meaningless small talk and stupid stories Eddie's heard a million times, making it easy for him to drown the noise out. He's talked about his mother before, but not in great detail. All Richie knows is that she died hated by her own son, but that fact doesn't seem to faze him. Eddie knows he has his fair share of parental issues and he knows he's not being judged, but he still can't help but feel guilty. Why, he's not sure, but the guilt is only swelling as the miles pass and minutes fly by, consuming him. By the time they've reached North Dakota, Eddie needs to pull over so he can heave, Richie immediately behind him, rubbing his back like a good boyfriend. When he's finished and all that's managed to come up is the slightest bit of bile, Eddie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, pops a breath mint, and keeps on going. Richie, God bless him, doesn't ask questions until they've almost crossed the state entirely.

 

“So,” he says casually, feet propped up on the dashboard and head lolling to the side. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose and a few stray curls are falling in his face. Eddie has to resist the urge to adjust them. “Ding dong, the witch is finally dead.” Eddie tenses at his words, shoulders tightening and face grimaced. He knows that he's never spoken highly of his mother, and maybe he never had a reason to, but he's not exactly _happy_ that she's gone. He never once wished death upon her, no matter how angry he may have been. He's just surprised that it took Richie nearly thirty hours to make some sort of tasteless comment. That's a new record for him.

 

“This isn't funny, Rich.” He says, voice soft, tiny, the sort of thing he finds completely unrecognizable, even to himself. Richie props himself back up, taking his feet off the dashboard and quickly adjusting his glasses. He has a funny grin on his face, the sort that's confused and a little cruel. It makes Eddie's tension multiply.

 

“Yeah it is,” he insists. “That bitch put you through hell, Eds. She got what was coming to her.” Eddie wants to argue, but he doesn't think he's capable. Richie has a point, as much as he hates admit it. He himself thought that she had it coming when he first heard the news, but now things have sunk in. Now he's escaped from his state of delirious shock and he's come to terms with the fact that _his mother is dead_. It almost makes him wish he had called more, maybe bothered to visit when she got sick, but he never did. For two years, he ignored her existence, pretended she was never a part of his life. But she _was_ , and maybe she was a shitty part, but a part nonetheless. His grips tightens on the steering wheel.

 

“That's my _mother_ , Richie. My _mother_ is dead.” Richie grins, something manic and mean. It makes Eddie squirm.

 

“Well Hallu-fucking-lulah.”

 

“Can you please be a little more sensitive?” Eddie asks, practically _begs_. “This is -all of this is really weird for me and you're not helping.” Richie sighs, dramatically, pushing a hands through his hair.

 

“I don't get this,” he says, after a prolonged period of silence. “You hated her for _years_. You wanted nothing to do with her, but now she's dead you suddenly care?” Eddie stays quiet, lips pressed together and eyes trained on the road. “You just don't make any fucking sense, baby.” Richie stares up the the roof of the car, brows creased and posture slumped. “No fucking sense at all.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Richie has to stop for a smoke break when they reach Minnesota, bracing the cold October air just for the sake of his nicotine fix. Eddie quit smoking a little while ago and has been trying to get Richie to join him, but his efforts have been futile. He knows Richie's lungs are going to shrivel up and die all too soon, but he's accepted that there's nothing he can do about it. He watches from the heat of the car, tucked away in the passenger's seat and bundled in an over-sized hoodie. There's an aesthetic to the smoke billowing from Richie's lips that he hates to love. He looks fucking _hot_ like that, standing tall, cigarette tucked between his fingers -so at peace. It's disgusting in how beautiful it is. When Richie gets back in the car, he smells like stale smoke and tobacco, but Eddie kisses him anyway. He always kisses him after he's had a smoke, even though he smells bad and tastes worse. He can't help it. There's something about the heavy scent of cigarettes and Richie that drives him absolutely wild. In his head, it's sexy and deep, masculine in it's musk. In reality, it's like licking an ashtray. Richie should feel lucky to have found someone who's willing to suck his tongue after he's had a smoke.

 

 _I love you,_ Eddie wants to say when he pulls away, but he doesn't. The last time he told Richie he loved him with no forewarning, he didn't see him for two weeks. When he finally came back, drunkenly barging into Eddie's dorm room, he carried a red lipstick smear on his neck and the scent of cheap perfume. “I'm really glad you're coming with me.” He says, instead. Richie grins, glasses slightly askew and hair rumpled. He kisses him again, this time a quick peck of lips, sweet and chaste.

 

“I wouldn't miss it,” he murmurs, forehead resting against Eddie's. “I love you, baby.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_Please don't leave me_

 

_Please don't leave me_

 

_Please_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Being back in his childhood home, now empty and cold, is a weird experience. Especially so with Richie right by his side, fingers laced with his, holding him tight. Eddie knows he was his mother's last living family member, that everything in her will was left to him, but he doesn't really want any of her shit -not her house or her car ot her collection of porcelain dolls. He especially doesn't want her money. Eddie promised himself when he went to college that, no matter what, he would never accept his mother's money -would never need to depend on her again. As he's digging through the house, throwing her things in trash bags to give to the Goodwill, he begins to think. He wonders if, maybe, he should have forgiven her before she died, should have called once, _just once_ , to let her know he was doing okay. He hasn't spoken to her since the day he fucked off to Washington, now a little over two years ago, and he's beginning to regret it.

 

“Hey,” Richie says, digging through the multitude of medications in the far right kitchen cabinet. “Are these your birth control pills?” Eddie rolls his eyes, grabbing them from Richie's hands and dumping them in the trash.

 

“Yeah, I'm saving them for your sister, now fuck off; this is private shit.” Richie holds up both his hands in mock surrender.

 

“I'm just trying to help.”

 

“Go help somewhere else, somewhere where you _won't_ be invading the dead's medical history.” Richie pauses, a mischievous grin splitting his face.

 

“Wasn't she like six hundred pounds when she ate it?” Eddie cringes at his choice of words, but nods nonetheless. His mother had never had particularly healthy eating habits and he can only assume they got worse after he left. She was a stress eater, her cabinets filled with Twinkies and cakes and other sugary shit no one should be consuming in mass quantities. “Who in the right mind would tap that?”

 

“Shove it,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes as he pushes himself off the counter. He doesn't further justify Richie with more of a response because he's so beyond over this conversation that he can't fathom it continuing. To no surprise, Richie follows him up the stairs to his mother's bedroom, digging through her things like he owns them. It rubs him the wrong way, for some reason. He doesn't love how someone's hands are all over his deceased mother's belongings. The entire situation is oddly surreal, as if everything is happening in a dream and he can't seem to wake up. He keeps waiting for her to walk through the door, to scold him for letting a strange, _dirty_ boy go through her nice, clean things. She would have hated Richie, and that fact leaves him equal parts smug and guilty. He had always been one for telling his mother to shove it, for doing things that directly went against her wishes, but now that she's gone....

 

Now he wants to be easier on her.

 

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Richie says, holding up an extra, extra large mu-mu, big enough to fit the both of them and then some. “Was this hers?” He asks, half impressed, half horrified.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Christ.” Richie mumbles, folding the dress back up. “Was she that huge last time you saw her?” Eddie slowly shakes his head, feeling a few tears prick the corners of his eyes. He didn't think he'd be crying over her, but something about seeing that massive dress makes him sad, even a little guilty.

 

“No,” he responds, voice sounding more broken and scratchy than he would have hoped. “She must've just kept gaining weight after I left. I guess her heart finally gave out.” He swallows thickly, starting at the piles of folded clothes at his wake, far too large to fit anyone. Maybe he could make and ugly table cloth out of them. Maybe the Goodwill would find a use. Either way, he wasn't quite ready to part with them, not when they were the last things he had of hers. Richie is quiet for a moment, which is unnerving. He almost never stops talking.

 

“My mom was the opposite.” He says finally. Eddie snaps his head up, suddenly very curious. He's never heard Richie talk about his parents, has never had the heart to ask. “She lost a bunch of weight after my dad -well, after he left. Smoked, drank, all that shit, you know? She eventually just kinda withered away.” Eddie stares at him for a moment, completely unaware that Richie had lost his mother, or his father, for that matter.

 

“Rich, I'm so sorry-”

 

“Don't be, it's -I don't even remember it that well. I was a kid.”

 

“Oh,” Eddie says, unsure of how to respond to that. “Um, what happened to you after she uh,” _died_ , he struggles to say, the topic of death for too heavy and prevalent to say out loud

 

“Foster care.” Richie says with a shrug. “It was okay. The family I stayed with was nice and all, but there were a lot of kids in the house and they were kinda young, in their mid-thirties, didn't really know how to deal with a kid with ADHD and _behavioral problems_ ,” he pauses, running his tongue over his lips as if to stall the rest of the conversation. “So I decided to save them the trouble, ran away and took care of myself.”

 

“Shit,” Eddie says, eyes wide. “How did you manage?” Richie shrugs, a funny gleam in his eyes.

 

“LA is a crazy place, baby. You'd be amazed at all the ways a teenager can make some money.” He's grinning, lips twitched up in a twisted smile and it makes Eddie uneasy. He's not sure, exactly, what Richie's talking about, but he doesn't think he wants to ask. It all seems a little to shifty to say out loud. “But it's no big deal, okay?” Richie reassures, clearly having seen the distressed look on Eddie's face. “I'm here now, and I'm okay, so don't worry too much.” He rests his hands on Eddie's hip, rubbing soft circles in the divots and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I'm clean and I'm in college and it's all fuckin' good.”

 

Eddie snorts, thinking about last weekend when he witnessed Richie snort three lines of cocaine off a park bench and then proceed to run a lap around the pond, hollering about how he could kill God if he wanted to. _Clean_ was a word, but certainly not one to describe Richie Tozier. He stated as much, softly poking Richie in the stomach and grinning up at him.

 

“Nah,” he said, matching Eddie's grin with one of his own. “Coke is baby juice. Just some shit I do for fun on the weekends. I'm talking about heroin, my love.”

 

“So you're telling me,” Eddie starts, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You pulled a whole ass Kurt Cobain?”

 

“Everything 'cept the suicide.”

 

“You're full of shit.” Richie raises his brow, untangling himself from Eddie to roll up the sleeve of his flannel, revealing a few light, circular scars. Eddie ran his fingers over them, having notice the markings before, but never really thinking twice about them. They were very faint, almost impossible to notice, and must have been at least six years old. He tried to picture a fourteen year old Richie, large glasses and crooked teeth, crowding in an alley in Los Angeles, shooting up like a junkie. It was a difficult thing to picture.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ultimately, Eddie decided to forgo the funeral service, instead opting to get her cremated and scattering the ashes in the backyard. He put the house up for sale and donated all the belongings she left to him in her will. It was depressing, going through all her old shit, watching her ashes flutter through the wind like little dust particles and it all only made the weight of guilt in his chest sink. He ended up putting the house up for sale and transferring the rest of her money into his college fund, in case graduate school decided to call his name. It wasn't much, but it was something. He still hadn't heard back about the house, though. Within less than a week, he and Richie were back in Washington, going about their daily lives as if nothing had happened. Eddie desperately tried to forget about her, would cut off his friends every time they asked how he was doing, and put the small bit of energy he had left into focusing on school. Missing a week of classes made it difficult to catch up and he silently cursed his mother for having not died at a more convenient time. Perhaps around Thanksgiving.

 

Occasionally, Ben would ask for his opinion on colors for the wedding, or make him look at fonts for invitations, but he was never much help, having never been very good at thing of that nature. Often, his answers consisted of “I don't know, go with blue,” or “the cursive looks okay,” and Ben, forever stressed and just looking for a bit of reassurance, would happily thank him and go on with his day. Things were feeling different, but normal nonetheless.

 

When Richie came over, usually on Friday nights or when Ben and Beverly were out hunting for apartments off campus, they wouldn't do much of anything. Just study ot watch movie, cuddling up on Eddie's sitting, single bed.

 

“I love you,” Richie would say. “I love you so much.”

 

Eddie almost never said it back, too terrified of the consequences.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_How much longer can this go on?_

 

_I want to love you,_

 

_But you make it too hard_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you sleep with other people?” Eddie asks, even though he's asked it once before. His mind has never gotten off this topic, always consumed with _what if's_.

 

“No.” Richie says, confidently and without question. Eddie doesn't believe him. He doesn't think he ever will.

 

“Then how come you freak out if I say 'I love you' first?” This one makes Richie hesitate, his muscles tensing and his jaw set. _Got you_ , Eddie thinks, bitterly.

 

“Because,” he starts, voice soft and slow. “I think you're making a huge mistake.”

 

Eddie is quiet, unsure of how to respond. Instead, he kisses him, cupping his face between his hands and pressing their bodies as close together as possible. For the first time in a while, he thinks about the words Richie said to him the day they met,

 

 _I'm going to ruin you for anyone who isn't me_.

 

And oh boy, wasn't that the truth.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_You'll never be a mistake._

 

_Never._

 


End file.
